


Apartment 7B

by thisgirlnani



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, and a little angst sprinkled in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-17 23:12:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15472221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisgirlnani/pseuds/thisgirlnani
Summary: Jon Snow bursts into Sansa Stark's apartment, late one night, thinking he's signed a lease for her place, however he's just the victim of a housing scam. A bit shaken by the incident, Sansa attempts to move on, but when she spots him the next day, outside her apartment, it turns out life has a different plan for the two of them.





	Apartment 7B

He stumbles into her life, one late, Thursday night.

Suitcase in one hand and a duffel bag in the other, he barges into her apartment, but freezes suddenly, when he sees her there, at the kitchen table with a half-finished pizza and a glass of water. His mouth opens, and then closes, seemingly bewildered at her presence, as though she were the intruder, and not the resident.

“What the _hell?_ ”  

Fear causes Sansa’s voice to rise a good two octaves, unsure whether to grab her phone to dial 911 or to grab the heavy baseball bat, tucked away in the coat closet. When Sansa gets up to move towards the closet, the stranger moves back, with his hands up.

“W-wait!” She stops, then, if only to take a moment to will her heart to return to a normal pace. Sansa glares up at him, for having the nerve to barge in, but then finds herself also studying him closer.

He doesn’t look exactly as though he has murderous intentions. There’s no ski mask, no gun in hand, no _anything_. He just looks dead tired, heavy bags lining his eyes and his dark curls all askew as though, he hasn’t groomed properly in a couple of days.

So Sansa then, squeaks out, “Are you lost?” Her fingers reach out to grasp her cell-phone, _just_ in case. Right now, she’s replaying in her mind, all of Robb’s warnings when she first told him she wanted to live alone in the city.

The man goes pale, and something like realization crosses over his face. “I-I I don’t know.” He rubs his beard, agitatedly. “This apartment complex is 1405 Pembroke Street?”

Sansa nods slowly. That _is_ her address. If he’s planning to steal something or hurt her, this is an odd way of going about it.

“And, this unit, this one right now, is 7B?” Sansa nods again, not sure as to where this man is going with this.

“ _Fuck_!” He swears so suddenly and so forcefully, she jumps a bit. He notices and immediately looks apologetic. “I’m sorry, shit, I’m an idiot and I just-“ He breathes out harshly. “You’re not moving out anytime soon are you?” He looks up at her, eyes dark and woeful.

She shakes her head now. Her lease isn’t up till the new year, and even then, she intends to renew it. Her place is close to school, and just a short bus ride away from Robb’s.

“I got scammed.” He mutters, more to himself than her. “Of course, just my damn luck.” Sansa watches as his expressions move from anger to frustration and then, utter desolation. He mutters unintelligibly to himself, before turning, again, to her.

“I hate that I’m even asking, but is there any way I could stay for the night? I just don’t have a place to go to, and I need a place to crash. I’ll be gone in the morning.” He promises, earnestly.

Sansa stills at his request. She _wants_ to be a good Samaritan. He looks to be a nice guy, and genuinely in need of help. But Sansa can’t trust her judge of character, anymore. And besides, he’s a _stranger_ . She’s watched one too many episodes of _Criminal Minds_ to know how this could go down. “I’m sorry.” She says softly, her eyes lowering. “I can’t do that.”

His face falls, and she braces for his anger, but instead, when she raises her gaze, he looks understanding. “Of course,” he says. “Sorry about everything.” He nods curtly and adjusts his grip on his duffel bag.

Before he leaves, he turns back, grey eyes meeting her blue ones. “Don’t forget to lock the door.” He mumbles. “Doesn’t seem too safe.”

Sansa’s lips barely have time to quirk up at the irony of his statement, before he’s gone.

* * *

 

She hadn’t been expecting to see him again.

But the next day, as she’s leaving for work, Sansa spots a familiar tangle of dark curls. He’s  sleeping soundly, nestled in the alleyway that houses the garbage and recycling, using his duffel bag as a buffer between his body and the brick wall.

Sansa rests on her haunches, leans closer, and spots a purplish-tinge to his lips. Her eyes travel to his long fingers, and when she barely brushes her hand against his skin, she shivers, feeling the ice in his veins.

 _It was raining last night, too. He really hadn’t had any place to go_.

A pang goes through her, as she studies his sleeping form.

Still, residual, selfish thoughts flit around in her mind _. You don’t owe him anything._ _He’s a strange, Sansa!_ She bites her lip, uncertainly, watching him again.

This time, he moves slightly. Sansa holds her breath, but he is still asleep, just adjusting his head, so it rests more comfortably in the crook of his shoulder.

The movement is oddly reminiscent of a small pup, and suddenly, she’s hit by a rush of nostalgia.

When she was younger, her father had found a litter of Alaskan Malamute puppies, abandoned in the woods that bordered their house. The Stark children had begged and clamored to keep the puppies, to which their parents, eventually relented. She’d spent hours mesmerized by their tiny movements, playing adoringly with each and every one of them.

The runt of the litter, however, had been weak and whimpered feebly while his brothers and sisters barked and ran about excitedly. Sansa’s mother had wanted to give the runt away to the shelter, but her father wouldn’t allow it. He had said: “ _We can help him, and so we will.”_

True to his word, they had kept every single pup and cared for all of them, as long as they could.

That was Eddard Stark. Honorable and strong, and gone too early. As his eldest daughter, she hadn’t inherited much from him, in terms of physical characteristics. But, she had learned his lessons well.

Sansa squares her shoulders, reaching over to tap the man awake.

_I can help him, and so I will._

* * *

He seems stunned into silence by her actions. Even when they’re right at her apartment door, he lingers at the threshold, his gaze darting around, looking for the punchline to a joke that doesn’t exist.

“Well?” Sansa prods, “What’s the matter? You were more than happy to barge in last night.”

She means it as a joke, but he takes it to heart, turning pale and apologizing profusely.  Sansa shakes her head, to stop him mid-apology. “Sorry, that came out wrong.” She winces. “Let’s start again. We did get off to an -- odd start.” She smiles, as warmly as she can. She wants him to feel comfortable. “I’m Sansa.”

He hesitates again, but at least this time, he steps forward into her apartment. “I’m Jon. Jon Snow.”

Before anything, Sansa lets Jon shower. She shows him the bathroom, hands him a clean towel and a spare toothbrush, and tells him to let her know if he needs anything. He doesn’t say anything, only gives her a half-smile, and closes the bathroom door, quietly.

Once she hears the water running, Sansa begins to pace nervously. _Is she insane for doing this?_ This isn’t like her, to spontaneously make decisions like this. She’s always been known to be rational, cool-headed and focused. And yet, out there in the alleyway, she’d taken a single look at him and known what needed to be done and she’d acted impulsively.

She doesn’t know how long she can have him at the apartment for, but her mind is already jumping ahead to certain logistics. The couch in the living room is large enough for him to sleep on and she’s got plenty of spare blankets and pillows he can use. As for food, well, Sansa isn’t a great chef, but she’s always got frozen food and leftovers stashed in the fridge---

 _Food. He must be starving._ Sansa pauses from her thoughts to move to the kitchen. She pulls out eggs from the refrigerator to make an omelette and slices bread to pop in the oven.

Once the eggs are whisked and into the pan, she hears a slight buzz from her pocket. Fishing out her phone, Sansa’s stomach drops a bit when she sees the caller ID: _Petyr Baelish._

She sighs in resignation before answering. “Hello?”

“Sansa,” She can imagine her boss now, coffee in hand, peering out the glass window of his office with a knowing smirk. “Just wanted to make sure you were coming in today. We didn’t see you at the meeting, this morning.”

“Right.” Sansa purses her lips tight together. “I forgot to text you, sir. I woke up with _terrible_ stomach pain.” Surprisingly the lie comes easily, so she continues. “I-I don’t want to gross you out, but I’ve thrown up twice, now. I thought I might be able to come in late, but I may need to take the entire day off. I apologize, Mr. Baelish.”

“That does sound awful.” Petyr sympathizes, his voice syrupy-sweet. “You’re one of our best, I hope you get better soon.”

“Thank  you, Mr. Baelish.”

“Would you need me to stop by your place, with medicine?” He offers, innocently enough. Sansa’s heard enough rumors around the office to be wary.

“That’s quite alright, sir. You’re kind to offer, though. My brother is coming by, later with medicine. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.” Sansa ends the call, quickly, before he can say anything else.

“Hey.”

Sansa yelps in surprise at the sudden intrusion. Jon’s head peeks from the bathroom doorframe, wet curls sticking to his forehead. “Sorry,” he rushes to apologize.

“Yes?” She responds, a hand over her still-jumping heart.

“Could you grab my duffel? I’ve got a change of clothes in there.” He scrubs at his beard, sheepishly.

“Of course.” Sansa hurries to grab his bag, and when she goes to give it, Jon widens the door to receive it. She slows a bit, seeing him fully now. His chest is bare, and her towel is slung low on his hips. On the curve of his left bicep, she spots a tattoo, which looks to be a crow, black wings spread out mid-flight. Sansa tries not to gawk, as she takes in the hard planes of his body, it’s just—well, she hadn’t expected him to be so _fit._

Jon coughs and she flushes, her eyes darting back up to his grey gaze, hoping he hadn’t noticed her distracted stare.

If he noticed, he doesn’t say anything, thankfully.“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I overheard your call.” He admits. Jon pauses, as though trying to find the right words. “You didn’t have to do any of this for me. So, thank you.” Jon smiles, and this time it’s not a half-one, it’s a sweet curve of his full lips and Sansa’s heart stutters in reaction.

Sansa drops back, shyly, suddenly aware of their close proximity. “Of course.” Her toes dig into the carpet, wanting to say something else or-

“Is something burning?” Jon blinks, his gaze moving to the kitchen. Sansa sniffs the air, and sure enough, the taint of smoke is there.

“Oh s _hit_.” Sansa curses, darting back to the kitchen. “I was making breakfast. Or trying to.” She slides the burnt omelet into the garbage disposal with a sigh. “Sorry! Just change, and I’ll have an unburnt one, ready for you.”

He dares to quirk a brow, as though he doubts her ability. “Let me.” Jon suggests. “Omelets are my specialty.”

“No-“ Sansa begins to protest.

“Let me.” He insists. “To thank you.”

The way he smiles, again at her, well she can hardly argue with him, then.

* * *

 

Jon wants to leave the next morning, hesitant to overstay his welcome. But, she takes one look at him, asks him where he’ll be sleeping for the next few nights, and when he can only stutter like a failing car engine, she takes his duffel bag, and plops it back down on her couch.

He deflates in surrender and proceeds to make an omelet for the both of them. Jon hadn’t lied when he’d said it was his specialty.

They fall into a routine, a week or so into their living arrangement.

Jon always goes on a morning run, and afterwards, he cooks breakfast for the both of them. She heads to work, and when she comes back, he’s made dinner. Jon is an infinitely better cook than she is, and though she’s never asked him to do it, he’s taken up the responsibility of cooking all the meals. Sansa tries to split cooking duties, but she’s always met with a flat refusal and a joke about a burnt omelet.

They do the dishes together, though. The tiny kitchen has hardly enough space for them to huddle around the sink, but a part of her, guiltily, finds small pleasure in having him so close. Any accidental brush of his shoulder against her own earns her a mumbled ‘sorry’. Jon is ever so careful around her.

Jon isn’t talkative, but he answers her questions, and if she asks a follow-up one, he smiles, that beautiful smile, and answers again.

She learns, scandalously, that Jon was born of an affair. His father took him in, and he lived in the South for almost all of his life. In high school, Jon excelled at fencing, though he only talks about it modestly (Jon never brags). And after high school, Jon joined the army unsure of what to pursue as a career choice.

Most importantly, she learns that Jon is an artist. His suitcase that he’d brought, had been stuffed with more tools, than personal items. Because his things are laid out in the living room, she’s seen the stacks of drawing pads, and his extensive collection of charcoal pencils.

“What brought you here?” She asks, one night, after dinner. As they usually, do, they take up their respective spots on the couch, Jon on the left and her on the right. Jon sketches and she taps away on her laptop.

“A scam.” He answers, dryly, scratching away in his drawing pad.

“I mean,” Sansa pokes his bare calve with her foot. “What did you mean to do in Winterfell. If things had gone to plan, what were you planning to do?”

“Get a job, and then save up enough to go to art school.” He rubs at a charcoal smudge on his palm. He has another one on his jawline, but she resists the urge to point it out, or take it upon herself to clean it up. “And then maybe open my own gallery.”

“Will you show me one, one day?” She asks.

“Hm?” He looks up from his notebook.

“Your drawings.” Jon’s careful to always keep his pad close to his body, his back against the arm of the couch. Sometimes, she can catch a glimpse of a figure or a landscape, but it’s never a complete image.

“You might be disappointed.” Jon frowns. He stares down at his drawing, decidedly dissatisfied.

“I won’t be.” She promises. Her curiosity burns brighter, now.

“Maybe, one day, then.” Jon concedes.

* * *

 

A month later, Jon gets a job as a barista at the café across the street.

He delivers the news, during dinner, with unconcealed pleasure. “I can start paying you back, once I get my first paycheck.”

Sansa’s smile slips off as she huffs. “Jon, _no_. I’ve told you not to worry about it.” Jon’s tried one too many times to hand over to her a portion of his savings, to repay her, but she’s rebuffed him every single time. “You do just as much for me, helping around here. Put it towards art school.”

That’s Jon’s dream, after all. And she won’t delay it by taking a cent.

He still denies her, even a _peek_ at his sketchbook, saying that he isn’t finished, or that it isn’t up to par with his standards. Sansa can’t help but feel that they’re only paper-thin excuses, and that his artistry just isn’t something he wishes to let Sansa into. The thought stings at her, but Jon has a right to his privacy, so she doesn’t press him further on the subject.

Jon cuts into her thoughts with his voice. “I have to save up first for my own place.”

That stops Sansa, mid-bite. “Your own place?”

“Yeah, well,” He shrugs. When she looks at him, he doesn’t look back. Instead, his gaze is firmly fixed on his plate. “I can’t bother you much longer, it’d be rude of me.”

Sansa is at a loss for words. She’s always known this arrangement wouldn’t be permanent, but lately, she’s been feeling, as though she wouldn’t mind if it was. Truth is, his presence has been a welcome addition to Sansa’s life. She likes coming home to the smell of his cooking and the sight of his warm smile.

“You don’t bother me.” Sansa frowns.

Jon lets out a small chuckle and rubs the back of his hand against his stubble. He’s recently shaved, but his hair grows back fast. “I can’t stay here, forever.”

Sansa doesn’t say it, but she wishes he would. At the very least, she wishes things would stay the same, for just a bit longer.

Life, however has a different plan.

Jon’s new job has him working late nights, the café’s busiest times, and he’s volunteered to work weekends in order to pick up more hours. She’s incredibly proud of Jon for working so hard, but she wishes it didn’t put her and Jon’s schedules at the opposite ends of the spectrum.

When she wakes in the morning, he’s knocked out cold on the couch, utterly exhausted. She tries her best not to wake him, as she moves around the apartment, but occasionally, he’ll wake and send her off with a bleary-eyed wave. Then, when she returns from work he’s already left for work. Jon still manages to cook her dinner, leaving a plate for her in the refrigerator with careful instructions left atop the meal, on a small sticky note.

One note he had left, read:

_Leave plastic wrap on and place in microwave. Set time to 2 minutes. Hope your meeting went well._

_-Jon_

Just like Jon, they’re straight to the point with an edge of sweetness that tugs at her heart. Sansa keeps the various sticky notes, folding them neatly and placing them on her desk, for safekeeping.

* * *

On Thursday, she gets off work early, so she decides to bring _him_ dinner, this time. She gets his favorite tacos from the stand outside their apartment and heads over to the café, humming cheerfully.

When she enters, there’s a pretty blonde at the counter, but Jon is nowhere to be seen. “Hi, there,” The blonde smiles. “Welcome to Avenue Cafe!”

“Hi,” Sansa glances at her nametag. ‘Dany’ is written there in neatly, curled, letters. “Jon is working today, right?”

The blonde blinks in confusion, studying Sansa closely. Recognition, flickers over her expression, though Sansa can’t understand why. She’s never met the girl.  “Yes, he is.” Her smiles grows, “You’re Sansa, right?”

“Yeah,” She blinks in surprise. “How did you-“

“Jon’s mentioned you a couple of times.” Dany laughs behind her hand. “I don’t have mind-reading powers, unfortunately.”

Sansa doesn’t quite know what to say to that. Why would Jon mention her? “Oh, well, if you could let him know that I’m here, I have some food for him.”

“Of course.” Dany nods. “He’s just in the back room, I’ll let him know. You can have a seat at one of the tables.”

Sansa obliges, and takes a seat by the window, while Dany disappears behind the back door. She emerges a few moments later, Jon following closely behind with 3 large boxes, his head barely peeking behind the stack. He sets the boxes down, behind the counter and mutters something inaudible to Sansa, but Dany lets out a loud peal of laughter that grinds on Sansa’s nerves.

It bothers Sansa, the way, Dany’s hand lingers on Jon’s arm and how she comes close to whisper in his ear. _It shouldn’t bother me,_ she thinks furiously at herself. Jon and her aren’t together in any aspect. Still, her stomach churns uneasily and as Jon approaches, she tries hard, not to keep replaying Dany’s hand on Jon’s arm.

“Hey!” Jon grins as he nears. He’s wearing his uniform blue apron, and a sharpie sticks out behind his ear, tangling with his curls. “What are you doing here?”

She raises the bag of tacos and fries. “I thought you might want dinner.”

“Christ, you’re amazing.” He takes the bag, gratefully, from her. “I’m getting sick of having coffee for dinner.” Jon sits down on the empty seat in front of her.

Sansa reddens, involuntarily. “Don’t mention it.” She watches as Jon reaches in to grab a fry. “How’s work been?”

“Good. Busy, but not too exciting.” he shrugs. “How about you? Did your asshole boss quit? I’m surprised to see you before 7 pm.”

Sansa scoffs. “I wish.” Jon’s right. Usually Baelish makes it a routine habit to ask her to stay late, but he’s been gone at a conference, so thankfully, she hadn’t had to deal with him these last couple of days. “He’s on a trip.” She explains.

“Excuse me.” A soft voice chimes in and Sansa looks up to see Dany, holding out a cup of water to Jon. “Thought you might want something with your food.”

Jon takes the cup, gratefully. “Thanks, Dany.” Sansa’s stomach curls, unpleasantly.

“Dany,” Jon fixes the blonde with an inscrutable expression. “This is Sansa, my roommate.”

She beams. “We met! Do you want anything to drink, Sansa? I can whip it up real quick, for you. Free of charge, of course.”

 _I’m terrible_ , Sansa gripes, inwardly. She doesn’t know why she feels such unpleasantness, when Dany is being nothing, but perfectly pleasant, to her. She shakes her head, managing a weak smile. “I’m good. Thanks, though.”

“Aw, maybe next time. I make really cute, latte art.” She grins. “Of course, my art isn’t nearly as nice as Mr. Artist over here. His sketches are _incredible_. But, one day I’ll get there. Do you draw at all, Sansa?”

“No,” Sansa murmurs, faintly, suddenly feeling queasy.

 _She’s seen Jon’s sketches_.

Rather, Jon’s probably _shown_ her his sketches. Her stomach twists again, as she tunes out Jon and Dany’s idle chatter. _Of course_ , Jon probably likes her. And why wouldn’t he? Dany is both stunningly pretty and kind, what guy wouldn’t want to date her?

As close as Jon and Sansa have gotten over these past few months, Jon obviously sees her as just a roommate. He would share his art with someone he’s gotten close to romantically, someone like _Dany_.

Sansa stands up suddenly, desperately needing some fresh air. “I’ve got to go home.” She announces. Dany and Jon, both look up at her with matching expressions of surprise.

“Are you okay, Sansa?” Jon stands up, too.

“I’m fine.” She waves a hand. “I just remembered I have a report that I’ve got to turn in, tonight.”

“Sansa, I can walk you home. It’s dark and-“

“It’s fine, Jon.”  Sansa insists. “Besides, it’s getting busier now.” She gestures around the café. “I’ll see you in the morning.” She reaches for his arm to squeeze it warmly, before turning on her heel.

Her heart is pounding in her ears as she walks back home. The unmistakable, bitter taste of jealousy is sharp on her tongue, and she tries her hardest to swallow it down.

 _Jealousy_ , she feels, _jealousy._

The realization shocks her, and she slows in the street.

“ _Shit_ ,” She mutters under her breath. Turning her gaze skyward, she curses again, in frustration.

“You’re an _idiot_ , Sansa Stark.” She sighs into the night.

* * *

It wouldn’t be such an issue if it was only that her feelings for Jon had been realized but coupled with the fact that Jon couldn’t possibly reciprocate her feelings, it leaves her distraught and frustrated, knowing she can’t blame anybody but herself.

Determined, however, Sansa tries her best to smother her feelings towards Jon. It’s very much easier said than done, with Jon living with her.

He carries on, obliviously, but for Sansa, she can’t help but feel hyper-aware of Jon at every moment. Every brush of his hand against her back, or smile he sends her way, during their rare dinners together, makes her forget her next words and sends her heart aflutter. Still, she tries her best.

On Tuesday night, Sansa leaves work late, utterly exhausted and starving, eager to get home. While on the bus back to the apartment, she checks her phone, surprised to see a text from Jon.

_Made dinner. You coming home soon?_

Jon has recently requested for Tuesdays and Sundays off, so at least on those days, they’ve fallen back into their old routine. Of course, Sansa was pleased when he’d first told her that, but now, it just means there’s 2 days of the week where she absolutely cannot avoid him.

 _Yeah, 15 min away!_ Sansa bites down on her lip before adding, _Thanks for waiting for me :)_

Jon’s reply comes quickly. _Of course._

When she walks through the door of the apartment, the smell of tomato sauce and garlic is swirling through the air, and Sansa’s stomach lets out an involuntary grumble.

“Smells good!” She calls out by way of greeting, shedding her coat and slipping off her heels in the hallway.

The object of her frustrations stands at the stove with a tired look on his face, black curls all mussed and his eyes a bit red. “Did you fall asleep with your contacts on again?” Sansa chides, pointing to the discoloration is his eyes.

“Guilty. Fell asleep, waiting.” Jon grouses, his voice is raspy with traces of sleepiness still there. “I’m glad you’re back, now.”

She flushes, trying not to put too much weight in his words. “Go take out your contacts.” Sansa scolds, abruptly. “I’ll get the plates ready.”

Jon heads off to the bathroom, while Sansa slides out the plates from the dishwasher. She’s only just started spooning out the sauce when there’s a rapid-fire knock at the door.

Sometimes, Jon will get packages sent over, so she moves towards the hallway to answer.

Sansa swings the door open, but instead of a delivery man, there stands her little sister, brown-haired and grey-eyed, Arya Stark, looking particularly peeved. “God, _finally_.”

“Arya!” Sansa’s eyes widen in shock. “What are you doing here?”

“Of course.” Arya exhales and rolls her eyes. She’s dressed in ripped jeans and a suede jacket that looks suspiciously big for her tiny frame. “You forgot. I texted you on Sunday, Sans. Remember? I need to pick up mom’s dress, since I’m heading back home, tonight.”

 _Shit_ , _of course_. Sansa had meant to text Arya to come on Wednesday instead, but because she’d been so busy at work she’d forgotten. Now she’s got her little sister here, at the same time as Jon, and there’s bound to be questions.

As if on cue, Jon calls out. “Is it delivery, Sansa?”

Arya’s reaction is immediate, and Sansa watches nervously as her sister’s grey eyes flash. “That’s not Harry, is it? I thought you broke up with that asshole.”

“No,” Sansa shakes her head, with a disgusted shudder. “I did! Um, that’s Jon in there.” She clears her throat.

Her sister frowns at the unfamiliar name. “Jon? Who’s-“

“Come in,” Sansa rushes Arya past the doorway. “I’ll get the dress, for you.”

Of course, Jon with his impeccable timing, chooses to exit the bathroom at the exact moment Arya enters the main area of the apartment. He pushes up his wire-frame glasses on the bridge of his nose, blinking twice.

“Oh,” Jon stops in his tracks. “Who’s this?”

Arya frowns, looking Jon up and down. “I’m Arya Stark. You’re Jon, I presume?”

“That’s me,” Jon affirms with a lopsided smile. “Stark? So you’re the little sister.” He reaches out a hand, which Arya shakes after a brief pause. “Nice to meet you, Arya. I’m Sansa’s-“

“- _boyfriend_ .” Sansa cuts in, moving over to wrap a hand around his side, but elbowing him sharply, away from Arya’s view. “Jon’s my boyfriend, Arya.” She cringes, slightly, as she tugs Jon closer, trying to create the perfect image of a happy couple. Sansa figures it’s an infinitely better explanation for Arya, rather than, _‘This is a scammed guy I took in, who I now am hopelessly in love with, so say hello Arya!’_

“Boyfriend?” Jon repeats, puzzled. Sansa jabs him again and sends a pointed look his way. “ _Boyfriend_. I am that. Her boyfriend. Yes, I am.”

Arya doesn’t seem to notice, more interested in Jon’s crewneck. “Oi, you fenced with the Westerosi Knights?”

“In high school.” Jon confirms.

“Were you any good?” She, eyes him, critically. Arya herself, was a state champ, leading her high school team to victory.

“Pretty shit freshman year, but I made varsity the other years.” Jon shrugs, causing Sansa to roll her eyes. She knows he was ranked number four freshman year and ranked at the top for the other three years, but Jon enjoys being annoyingly modest.

Arya, amazingly enough, gets along well with Jon in conversation, which Sansa can hardly believe. In the past, when Sansa had brought over her past boyfriends, Arya had made her disdain clear, literally turning up her nose in greeting and refusing to grace them with a ‘hello’. She doesn’t stay for dinner, having already eaten, but she does stay a bit, chatting with Jon about fencing, the North, and college.

Before heading home with their mother’s dress, she pulls Sansa aside in the hallway, a solemn look on her face.

“He isn’t bad, Sansa.”

“Jon?” Sansa blinks.

Arya rolls her eyes. “Who else, dummy _?_ I’ve talked to him for 5 minutes, and already he seems 10 times better than the likes of Joffrey and Harry.” She scowls. “That’s not saying much, but it is something.”

“I’m happy you think so.” Sansa smiles, warmly. Even though there’s no cause for Arya to worry over a fabricated lie, she appreciates how protective her little sister can be.

“Just be careful.” Arya warns.

“You be careful,” Sansa admonishes. “Drive home safely. Tell, everybody I love them!”

She hugs Arya goodbye, and when she comes back inside, to finish eating with Jon, he looks at her expectantly. Sansa doesn’t really want to discuss the specifics of why she lied to Arya, or worst, accidentally confess her feelings, so she shrugs and takes a seat, digging into the food eagerly.

* * *

A few days later, however, Jon brings up the night that Arya visited.

They’re sprawled out on the couch, watching some documentary on Netflix about a French chef, that neither is actively paying attention to.

“So,” Jon clears his throat. “What was that whole thing with your sister?”

Sansa looks up from her phone, surprised to see Jon looking so _nervous_. It’s odd that he’s bringing up that night so many days, later. His gaze is only on the documentary, purposely avoiding her stare. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you know.” He presses, digging his fingers into the arm of the couch. “The whole thing with Arya, telling her I was your—boyfriend.”

Suddenly, the noise of the television fades to a dull hum, and Sansa struggles to maintain a façade of nonchalance. “I figured it would be easier, than to explain the weird circumstances of how we met.” She says, trying to imbue her tone with a sense of aloofness. “That’s all.”

“Oh,” Jon’s face falls a bit (or at least she thinks it does). She’s trying desperately hard not to read too deep into this conversation, but she’s miserably failing. “I see.”

“Little white lies don’t hurt anyone.” Sansa smiles, with all the false brightness in the world.

Jon finally looks up at her, and something in the intensity of his grey eyes, and the way his brows furrow, causes her smile to fall. It looks as though he might say something, and Sansa tries not to be so unsettled by the uncertainty in his pause.

“It doesn’t have to be a lie.”

Sansa is nearly 100% sure she’s dreaming, _I’m hallucinating conversations, now. Jon wouldn’t say something like that._ But, when she blinks, he’s still in front of her, looking expectantly at her for some sort of response. So, if she didn’t dream it all up, perhaps he’s pulling her leg, all for some cruel joke at her expense.

“Very funny,” She retorts, sourly, twisting her body away from Jon.

Jon’s face flushes red. “ _What_?”

“Jon, you like Dany.” Sansa scoffs, as though it were the most obvious fact.

“Since when?” he splutters, his face reddening further. “Why would you think that?”

“Since,” Sansa struggles to come up with an eloquent response. “Oh, I don’t know, you tell me! She’s pretty and nice and-“Even to her own ears, she sounds like a petulant child. But, at this point, she’s much too heated and frustrated with Jon too care. “And you showed her your sketches. You’ve never shown me those. So, I figured you liked her!”

A deafening pause follows. Sansa glares at Jon, while he only gapes open-mouthed. Then Jon, gets up from the couch and begins to rifle through his suitcase.

“What are you _doing_?” Sansa huffs.

Jon finally finds what he’s looking for and he gets up, thrusting the object into Sansa’s arms. She nearly drops it, unprepared, but when she grasps hold of it, she sees it’s one of his sketchbooks.

“Take a look.” Jon instructs.

Sansa has no idea where Jon is going with this, but she indulges him, thumbing through the worn pages.

It feels surreal, seeing his sketches _finally._ Of course, she always knew that he would be talented, but now that she has physical evidence in her hands of just how skilled he is with a mere pencil, she’s astounded. There are sketches of familiar things, the kitchen of the apartment, the view of the park from the apartment window, there’s even a simple coffee cup, drawn out with delicate precision. She continues flipping page after page of Jon’s creations, and then- there’s _her._

She freezes when she sees herself, reflected, transcribed, into graceful arcs and lines. There isn’t any doubt about the identity for Jon has captured her likeness well. The obvious care that Jon has put into the drawing, flusters her, and she struggles to understand why he’s chosen _her_ for a subject of his skills.

“Jon, t-this is-“Sansa stammers, “Well, this is beautiful.” She looks over at him in awe. “Why have you never showed me these before?”

He runs a nervous hand through his curls. “I thought you might see your portrait and think it strange. I’ve-“He fumbles awkwardly with his hands. “Well, I’ve liked you for a while now. And, I didn’t want to make you feel odd about it if you didn’t return my feelings. We live together, after all.”

Sansa can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. _“_ But what about Dany?” She blurts out, trying desperately to prove to herself that this is all too good to be true.

“She saw the drawing of you. I accidentally left my sketchbook out during one of my breaks.” Jon confesses with a wry laugh. “I told her about you. That I liked you. Er, she’s the one that’s been telling me to man up and tell you sooner rather than later.”

Suddenly, Sansa remembers Dany’s knowing smile, how she had known her name when they first met, and it all clicks together. _Dany had recognized her from the drawing._

“You like me?” Sansa repeats in a daze.

“I do, yeah.” Jon rocks back on his heels, nodding nervously. “If you don’t feel the same way, we can pretend this never happened. I don’t want you to feel uncom-“

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence, for Sansa crosses the distance between them, alarmingly fast and pulls him close, her hands, reaching up to tangle in his curls. She’s never been this close to Jon, but it feels exhilarating, being able to touch him and not have to pull away and apologize for it.

“I like you, too.” Sansa whispers. A blush blooms on her cheeks and she smiles, shyly, when Jon grins in response, and his hands softly rest at her waist.

“Thank god.” Jon murmurs, “I was ready to pack up my things, if you didn’t.” He lowers his head, and then his lips are upon hers, sweet, gentle and full of promise.

And in that quiet moment between the two of them in their small apartment, Sansa can’t quite remember the last time she’s been so happy.

**Author's Note:**

> ahhh my first long one-shot. i spent so long on this, my god, lol, but i hope you guys enjoyed this fluff/angst story and leave a comment or kudos, letting me know your thoughts! i was inspired by the manhwa 'the lady and her butler' you guys should check it out, if you have the time it's absolutely adorable. 
> 
> but anyways, who else can't wait for the new season of game of thrones to come out? regardless of whose ship ends up canon, i just need more jonsa content to inspire my writing lol, and anyways, jonsa writers are the best, so i know if the real writers fail me i can just come here for fix-it fics LOL. thank you guys again!


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